I Am David

I AM DAVID

By

ANNE HOLM

First published as DAVID by

Gyldendal, Copenhagen in 1963.

First published in the New Windmill Series 1991

Heinemann Educational Books Ltd Oxford

ISBN 0 435 12371 8

Cover Page

When “the man” helps David to escape from the prison camp where he has lived all his life David can’t quite believe it. Everything in the world outside is strange and wonderful — the brilliant, vivid colours of the sea and mountains, the taste of fruit, people laughing and smiling. But as he travels alone across Europe, David is tense and watchful, knowing that at any moment “they” might catch up with him.

David lay quite still in the darkness of the camp, waiting for the signal.

“You must get away tonight,” the man had told him. “Stay awake so that you’re ready just before the guard is changed. When you see me strike a match, the current will be cut off and you can climb over — you’ll have half a minute for it, no more.”

Silent and watchful, David tramps across Europe knowing that at any moment they might catch up with him. He seems as strange to other people as they are to him. As soon as anybody shows interest in him, David knows he must move on…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anne Holm was born in Denmark in 1922. Anne began her writing career with a volume of poetry when she was twenty. After a pause of some years she wrote three novels for adults and then in 1963, she wrote her first book for children, I am David. This book, under the title David was the winner of the 1963 Gyldendal Prize for the Best Scandinavian Children’s Book. It has now been translated worldwide and has become a bestseller and a children’s classic. Anne writes:

“I cannot name any special experience as a basis for David — except the general one of not having been quite seventeen when the last war broke out, and seen where violence, terror and hate leads you — I made David, and sent him travelling, in order to tell somebody who might want to know what, to me, is the most important of all things in life, if that life is to be worth anything to oneself and others.”

Anne Holm was married to a well-known numismatist, and has a son and two grandchildren. Of herself and her life Anne says:

“I write … I have been writing all my life — it’s a disease, I suppose … For years on end I have been busy with lots of other things I liked doing, but I always go back to my typewriter …”

David lay quite still in the darkness, listening to the men’s low muttering. But this evening he was aware of their voices only as a vague meaningless noise in the distance, and he paid no attention to what they were saying.

“You must get away tonight,” the man had told him. “Stay awake so that you’re ready just before the guard’s changed. When you see me strike a match, the current will be cut off and you can climb over — you’ll have half a minute for it, no more.”

In his mind’s eye David saw once again the grey bare room he knew so well. He saw the man and was conscious, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, of the hard knot of hate he felt whenever he saw him. The man’s eyes were small, repulsive, light in colour, their expression never changing; his face was gross and fat. David had known him all his life, but he never spoke to him more than was barely necessary to answer his questions; and though he had known his name for as long as he could remember, he never said anything but “the man” when he spoke about him or thought of him. Giving him a name would be like admitting that he knew him; it would place him on an equal footing with the others.

But that evening he had spoken to him. He had said, “And if I don’t escape?”

The man had shrugged his shoulders. “That’ll be none of my business. I have to leave here tomorrow, and whatever my successor may decide to do about you, I shan’t be able to interfere. But you’ll soon be a big lad, and there’s need in a good many places for those strong enough to work.”

David knew only too well that those other places would not be any better than the camp where he now was. “And if I get away without being caught, what then?” he had asked.

“Just by the big tree in the thicket that lies on the road out to the mines, you’ll find a bottle of water and a compass. Follow the compass southwards till you get to Salonica, and then when no one’s looking go on board a ship and hide. You’ll have to stay hidden while the ship’s at sea, and you’ll need the water. Find a ship that’s bound for Italy, and when you get there go north till you come to a country called Denmark — you’ll be safe there.”

David had very nearly shown his astonishment, but he controlled himself, and hiding his feelings merely said, “I don’t know what a compass is.”

The man had shown him one, telling him that the four letters indicated north, south, east and west, and that the needle, which swung freely, always pointed in the same direction. Then he had added, “The half minute the current’s cut off is intended for you. If you try to take anyone with you, you can be sure that neither of you will get away. And now clear off before you’re missed.”

David did not know what possessed him to say it — he had never asked the man for anything, partly because he knew it would be of no use, but chiefly because he would not — when you hated someone, you did not ask him for anything. But tonight he had done it: when he reached the door, he turned round, and looking straight into that coarse heavy face said, “I’d like a piece of soap.”

For a moment there had been complete silence in that bare grey room. Then the man picked up a cake of soap that lay by the side of the wash-basin in the corner and threw it on the table. All he said was, “Now go.”

So David had gone, as quickly as it was possible to go without appearing to be in a hurry.

The men’s muttering was fainter now — some of them must have fallen asleep. The camp’s latest arrival was still talking. David recognised his voice because it was less flat and grating than the others. Whenever the newcomer dozed off to sleep, he was seized with a nightmare, and then they would all wake up again. The night before, this had happened just before the guard was changed, but if he took longer to fall asleep this evening, then it might be possible for David to slip out before the others were wakened again.

David was not yet sure whether he would make the attempt. He tried to work out why the man had told him to do it. It was certainly a trap: just as he was climbing over, the searchlight would suddenly swing round and catch him in its beam, and then they would shoot. Perhaps something pleasant was going to happen tomorrow and the man wanted him shot first. David had always known that the man hated him, just as much as David hated him in return. On the other hand, nothing pleasant had ever yet happened in the camp that David could remember, and he was now twelve years old — it said so on his identity-card.

And then quite suddenly David decided he would do it. He had turned it over in his mind until his head was in a whirl and he still could not understand why the man had told him to escape. Suppose it were a trap and they shot him, it would all be over quickly anyway. If you were fired at while trying to escape, you would be dead within a minute. Yes, David decided to try.

*

There could not be many minutes left now. Over in the guard-room he could hear them moving about and getting dressed, and he could hear the guard yawning as his pace grew slower. Then came the sound of new steps and David pressed himself even more closely against the wall. It was the man; the faint sleepy yellow light from the guard-room shone for a moment on his face as he passed the window. He went up to the guard, and David suddenly felt quite empty inside and was sure that he would be unable to move when the time came. Then he saw before him the endless succession of days, months and years that would pass if he did not. The waiting would kill him in the end, but it might take years. And it would grow worse and worse, all the time: David clenched his teeth so hard that he felt the muscles of his throat grow taut. Then the man struck a match.

Nineteen, twenty … the half minute would be up when he had counted slowly to thirty … David set his foot in a gap higher up the barbed wire … When would the searchlight come? they could not be certain of hitting him in the dark … and if they did not hurry he would be over.

A moment later he had touched the ground on the other side, and as he ran he said angrily to himself, “What a fool you are! There’s plenty of ground to cover yet — all this great flat stretch without so much as the stump of a tree for shelter. they’ll wait till you’ve nearly reached the thicket … they’ll think it more amusing if you believe you’ve almost got to safety.”

Why didn’t they hurry up? The thought pounded through his head as every moment he expected to see the ground lit up in front of him. Then he stopped. He would run no more. When the beam of light caught him, they should see him walking away quite calmly. Then they would not enjoy it so much, they would feel cheated. The thought filled David with triumph.

When he was little, it had been his most burning desire to get the better of them, especially of the man. And now he would! They would be forced to shoot him as they watched him walking quietly away and taking no notice of them!

David was so taken up with his victory over them that he had gone a dozen yards past the spot where the thicket hid him from the camp before he realized that no one had fired. He stopped short. What could have happened? He turned, found a place where the thicket was thin enough to peer through and looked across at the low buildings outlined against the dark sky, like an even darker smudge of blackness. He could faintly hear the tread of the guard, but it came no nearer and sounded no different from usual, only farther off. Nothing at all appeared different.

David frowned in the darkness and stood for a moment undecided: it couldn’t possibly …? He trotted on, following the edge of the thicket towards the big tree, running faster the nearer he got, and when he reached the tree he threw himself down on the ground, searching frantically with his hands round the trunk.

There was the bundle. David leaned up against the tree shivering with cold although it was not cold at all. The bundle was a piece of cloth wrapped round something and tied in a knot. He fumbled with the knot, but his fingers were clumsy and would not respond — and then he suddenly realized that he dared not undo it. There would be something dangerous inside the bundle … He tried to gather his thoughts together sufficiently to think what it might be, but his imagination did not get beyond a bomb.

It would make little difference, he thought desperately — a bullet or a bomb: it would soon be over, either way. Frantically, his fingers awkward, he struggled with the knot.

But there was no bomb in the cloth. It was a square handkerchief tied cross-wise over a bottle of water and a compass, just as the man had said. He barely managed to turn aside before he was sick.

Afterwards he felt carefully all round the square-shaped bundle. A bottle, a compass — there was something else. David’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness: in the bundle there were also a box of matches, a large loaf of bread and a pocket-knife.

So the man had intended him to escape after all! A search-party would be sent out for him in the morning, but not before. The night was his, and it was up to him to make the most of it.

All this had taken only a few minutes, but to David it felt like hours. His hand closed tightly round the soap — he had not let go of it for a moment since he first got it. He recalled the hours he had spent that evening lying on his plank-bed listening to the muttered conversation of the men and thinking over what the man had said. He remembered, too, that it would be only a matter of time before he was caught again; but that, like everything else, no longer seemed important. All that mattered now was his bundle and the freedom of the night that lay ahead. Slowly he tucked the piece of soap into a corner of the handkerchief, laid the bottle, bread and knife on top, tied the ends together, took a firm grip on the knot and looked at the compass in his hand.

Then he ran.

When he looked back afterwards, all he could recall of the five days that followed was running and looking all the time at the compass to make sure he was travelling in the right direction. Every night he ran, and he ran all night long. Once he slipped into a water-hole and the mud caked on him as it dried. Once he was so torn by branches that blood oozed from the scratches on his face, hands and legs. He would never forget that night. He had come to a close thicket of thorn bushes, and the needle indicated that he should go straight through it. He had hesitated a moment and then tried running a few yards along the edge of it, but the compass needle immediately swung round. Perhaps he could have recovered his direction a little farther on, but he knew so little about compasses that he dared not risk it. And so he plunged into the thicket, elbows up to protect his face. The first branch that struck him hurt painfully, and so did the first gash along his arm, but after that he noticed nothing and just crashed his way through. The nights were usually completely quiet, but that night he could hear a whimpering moan the whole time. Not until afterwards did he realize that the sounds had come from himself.